


a moment of respite

by deadmetal



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Missing Scene, Secret Samol 2020, a breath of fresh air! a moment of almost-peace!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29115774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadmetal/pseuds/deadmetal
Summary: Castille is pulling the brim of her hat down, and she’s grinning at Maelgwyn. “I thought you were good at being sneaky!”Maelgwyn sputters. “I, I— I thought so too!”A moment in between remembering and god killing.
Relationships: Charter Castille/Maelgwyn
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	a moment of respite

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY SECRET SAMOL EVERYONE this was for @prairiecryptid on twitter!!!! this was so much fun to write and i loved thinking about fun little moments in between everything in marielda, and focusing in on one to give it justice was HARD but FUN. i hope u enjoy <333333333

They’re seated at a café in Helianthus Parish. One cup of chamomile for Maelgwyn, and one cup of untouched earl grey for Castille. He has a plate of fresh bread in front of him, and she has several peeled but unsliced oranges. 

It always goes like this. He finishes his food, then takes hers.

It’s nice.

“Anything new?” Castille prompts, lifting her teacup to her lips. She does not drink it, but she does take in the scent.

Maelgwyn sighs. “No, it is still so blurry. The… The mages have been telling me things, and it all adds up so far. So I’m maintaining faith in that.”

“That’s good,” Castille hums. “I’m in a similar boat, but no mages. I do talk to the Tea Witch Set sometimes, though.”

“Tea witches?” Maelgwyn leans forward, fascinated.

“Tea witches,” Castille nods. “Their stuff can even work on me. You know… Sensations, feeling. They usually hide it under the veil of lavish parties, but I make do when I want to be more private.”

“Hm…” Maelgwyn considers this, taking a bite of bread. “Maybe I’ll see them too. You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Marielda. Do you have anything else you can tell me?”

“Do you want a story?” Castille asks, setting her teacup down. “You know, we taught the best seamstress in Marielda how to sew,” Castille says, stone eyes somehow twinkling. “Her name’s Miss Constance. She came to our little libraries and — well, first we had to teach her to read the more complex stuff. Aubrey’s the best at doing that with the newbies — but once she had a grasp on the words she started coming in to look at a book we got imported from Velas. It was full of sewing patterns, and…”

Maelgwyn tunes her out. He doesn’t mean to, especially since he asked for this, but Castille’s words get lost on Maelgwyn as he observes her. There’s a strand of hair that curls onto her cheek. Can he brush that away? Or is it affixed on her marble flesh? Is it strange if he reaches out, index finger pointed just so?

He returns to himself when a gloved finger flicks his nose. It didn’t feel like stone at all through the glove. “Hey.”

“Sorry,” he winces in embarrassment. “I was paying attention. Mostly. I got distracted by your hair.”

Castille tilts her head to the side, her hat moving with her. It’s brim lifts slightly when she does, and immediately some stranger stares for a moment. Castille steels a breath and corrects herself, hat flopping back down to cover her face more thoroughly. “What about my hair was distracting?”

Maelgwyn gestures. “Is it like, a part of your body? You’re in a pala-din’s body, and I was just curious if you could style it or if it’s just permanently… like that.”

Castille hides a laugh behind a pretty glove. “Oh, no, no. It’s… strange, I admit; after all, I’m in a pala-din’s body. But I can do my hair. Not all pala-din have hair like mine, I’m  _ special.” _

Maelgwyn smiles fondly. “Yeah, you are.”

Castille looks at him funny before pushing her peeled orange towards him. “We should go somewhere! I want to sneak around, gather intel if I can. Call it legwork, or whatever.”

He does his best to hide a loud laugh, but he can’t help it.  _ “You  _ want to sneak? Castille, I love you-  _ you guys, _ but you know that no one in your crew is exactly good at sneaking around.”

Castille has the gall to make an offended face at him, saying in an exaggerated whisper, “I don’t know what you mean! We’ve successfully stolen from multiple places! You’ve  _ been  _ to our library speakeasy! We stole from god!” 

“Yes,” Maelgwyn says patiently. “And you guys  _ suck  _ at being stealthy. My point remains.”

“Pretty boys,” she mumbles under her breath. Before he can think to blush, she says, “Rude.  _ Well,  _ Mister Marielda, would you give me the  _ pleasure  _ of showing me how to be stealthy? If you’re so good at it.”

Maelgwyn smiles. “I’d love to. We can try Violet Parish.”

* * *

A few bullets sail overhead, hot iron slamming into the sidewalk a few meters in front of Maelgwyn’s feet. His back is pressed up against a half wall in an alleyway in Violet Parish, with Castille at his side. Castille is pulling the brim of her hat down, and she’s grinning at Maelgwyn. “I thought you were good at being sneaky!”

Maelgwyn sputters. “I, I— I thought so too! I’m spending too much time with you people! You terrible, no-good, very unstealthy librarians! How are you not panicking right now!?!”

He thought Violet Parish would be a good place to sneak around. The pala-din no longer linger here in their high quantities, and the other soldiers are off fighting his fathers’ war. Surely, this place would be empty—

Well. He forgot to account for the mercenaries. (Castille knew the routes to avoid the pala-din by heart, though.)

Surely anyone could’ve made that mistake. (Anyone who’s been in his position, at least.)

Castille throws her head back in a laugh, even as bullets soar overhead. “Please, everything goes wrong for us, I’m used to this. Besides, it’s  _ exciting!  _ Makes me feel a little more human. Also, I think you’ve just made our crew name make sense.”

“Your-Your  _ crew name?”  _ Maelgwyn says incredulously. He does not allow himself to linger on the face she makes when she laughs. “Castille, really, I—”

“Welcome to the Six,” she says gravely, patting his shoulder before grabbing his hand and weaving through the alleys of Violet Parish. Her glass bottles  _ clink! _ together as she moves. A statue running with such practiced grace — if Maelgwyn wasn’t the Son of Marielda; Confidence Alive, maybe he would’ve felt doubt. But with Castille, doubt is nothing. Not even the mages inspire this in him, even with their gifts and their spells. There is something special about being with Castille.

She inspires a different sort of confidence.

The two of them scale a wall, Castille strangely adept at wall climbing for being a woman made of marble. Eventually, the dull gray and eerie quiet of Violet Parish is replaced with the golden lowlights and soft hums of Chrysanthemum Parish. The shouts quiet and the bullets stop coming.

Castille doesn’t let go of his hand, but her sprint slows into a brisk walk. “Let’s go somewhere more populated,” she murmurs, leading him towards greenery.

Maelgwyn shifts his eyes and tugs his mask closer to his face.

They’ve weaved across the Parish in such a way that they now stand before the Hanging Gardens. Something almost surfaces, like floating in a lake of liquid fire but burning up before Maelgwyn can comprehend it. A garden. A tree. A home.

He looks back to Castille, face slotted back to her somber, stony expression. “There are some shops here,” she says. “Do you want to take a look?”

“I… Yes,” he says. A few people walk past, and maybe it is because of Castille’s proximity to him, but their eyes do not wander over to him like he feared they would.

She leads him to different booths. Neither of them approaches; her for her stone complexion, and him for his fame - or perhaps infamy. But they wander together, and as the Sun that Maelgwyn knows to be his father, in some way, dips below the fiery sea, he reaches for her hand.

She holds it

Neither of them let go.


End file.
